The poet sings in love-sick verse
Plaints thy goblets soon disperse;
Pluck the willow from his head,
’Twine the vine-leaf in its stead,
Fill the bowl with drink divine,
Give the wounded minstrel wine;
And the fool now fraught with pain,
Ne’er shall weep for love again.
See! it scarcely stains his lips,
Yet to draughts have turned his sips.
Subtle raptures swiftly fill
Every vein with fiery thrill;
Long before its rage is o’er
Pants the reeling wretch for more;
Squeeze the grape, fill high the bowl,
Wine shall cheer the wounded soul.
Let the ruddy torrent flow,
Heal all wounded hearts below,
Freely let the red stream pour,
With its storm the blood shall roar;
Surges of mad ecstacy
Shall embroil life’s phantasy;
Clouds of joy before the brain
Dull the deeper sense of pain.
Love is great; but in life’s dream
Wine alone shall reign supreme;
To old Bacchus! drink and sing;
Cupid’s Victor! Pleasure’s King!